


I'm Just A Notch In Your Bedpost (But You're Just a Line In a Song)

by Vulcanodon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bodyguard! Geralt, M/M, Post-Canon, Rock and Roll, Sexual Tension, Somehow not an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulcanodon/pseuds/Vulcanodon
Summary: While Geralt was off fulfilling his mythic destiny, Jaskier has somehow managed to climb the slippery ladder of fame. But it's not all rock and roll: somewhere along the way he's finally succeeded in annoying someone to the point of actively trying to kill him. After a chance encounter at an inn, Ciri takes the liberty of signing Geralt up as temporary bodyguard. But, what with the lingering hurt feelings from their last fight and the issue of Jaskier's new trousers, this might prove a harder task than ever before..."It’s… well, it’s definitely Jaskier. It’s also a shirt that’s missing half of its buttons and a stomping roiling beat that Geralt has never heard before. Above all it’s some of the most obscenely raunchy lyrics that Geralt has ever heard, delivered in a tone so dripping in sex that Geralt feels a sudden urge to cover Ciri’s ears.“You meet a lot of interesting people,” Ciri says mildly as onstage, Jaskier does something complicated using mainly his hips. It should be embarrassing but Geralt finds himself watching intently and that’s when Jaskier finally looks up and sees him through the crowd. "(Note: Korean translation can now be found here! https://m.blog.naver.com/therrion/222004222802 )
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 109
Kudos: 758
Collections: Epic To Read List





	1. Chapter 1

It’s late at night, and Jaskier is six ales deep at a small dingy tavern when he makes the worst best career decision of his life. The kind of career decision that will (hopefully) change his shitty luck forever. The kind of career decision that will launch him to a new strata of wealth and fame and general adoration from the public.

“I’m done with mournful ballads,” he announces to the room in general, taking a long pull at his mug. “No more weepy shit or love songs for me. No more epic tales either. That stuff is for the unimaginative. Losers.”  
  


He searches for the word, spills some ale on his shirt, and then finds it.

“Those songs are for _hacks_ ,” he spits out.

The small crowd of hardened peasants and drunken locals consider him wearily. This is a shitty tavern in an already shitty little village but suddenly Jaskier feels a wave of warm affection for them. His people. His _audience_. They may not have paid (or even appreciated) his last round of songs but they were here at least. They hadn’t walked out, gotten on their horses and ridden off, looking stoically into the distance. They hadn’t _left him._

“No more songs about Witchers?” one calls out. “Go on bard- sing us the one about the Valley of Plenty.”

“No,” Jaskier says bluntly, attempting to cross his arms and splashing ale onto the tavern floor. “I’ve told you. No more love ballads.”

“We weren’t wanting love ballads,” the peasant mutters. “Just like the tune of-”

“No,” Jaskier says more loudly, cutting him off. “Love is dead, you hear me? It doesn’t deserve any more songs. From now on, I’ll only sing about real issues. The important things in life. The real things.”

“Ale,” a toothless old man by the fire suggests.

“Money,” calls the barmaid.

“No,” Jaskier says. “From now on I’m singing about two things. Sex and murder.”

He nods and now that he hears the words out loud, he actually feels good about them.

“Yes,” he says. “Sex and murder. Let’s do it.”

There’s a moment of considered silence from his audience and then someone at the back shouts out, “Well, get on with it then.”

Jaskier blinks, sways and considers his lute. This will be off the top of his head; an improvised show but hell, he’s performed under worse pressure.

“Alright,” he says, picking up the lute and trying out an experimental strum. “So, which do you want first- murder or sex?”

“Murder!” someone calls out and then, “Sex! Sex!”

“Fuck, why choose?” Jaskier says and then starts to play.

* * *

_Five Months Later_

While in some ways finally finding Ciri had changed everything, in a lot of ways it hadn’t really changed anything at all.

Geralt still fights monsters. He still ends up dirty and covered in blood and wishing for a hot bath at the end of most days. He still gets dirty looks from villagers and underpaid most of the time. The main difference is that now he tries to stop in towns a little more frequently, spending his money on inns rather than brothels. Because, while Ciri has certainly had a taste of life outside the palace walls at this point, Geralt would still rather she spent less nights on the ground and more with a roof over her head, however leaky.

It’s strange caring for someone else after so long on his own. Geralt had almost forgotten how much slower humans were, how much more fragile. Ciri doesn’t complain much, but she gets tired long before him, even on Roach’s back. The last time Geralt had to think about things like regular meals and stopping to sleep had been when he was travelling with Jaskier. But even Jaskier had been, (technically) an adult and never hesitated to complain whenever he needed to stop. Ciri though, is always trying to appear tougher than she is and more than once, Geralt has had to stop her falling out of the saddle in exhaustion.

That had been in the early days, when they had barely talked to each other, wandering through the burnt hellscape that remained of Sodden Hill. They had never found Yennefer, not even after two days of searching. Eventually Geralt had looked at Ciri, white faced among all the ash and twisted bodies and made the decision to leave.

He hoped, no he _trusted_ Yennefer to still be alive. If for no other reason than she had to be.

“Have you been here before?” Ciri asks him now, from where she’s walking on the other side of roach along the dusty trail. “You said it’s not far to the village but that was two miles back Geralt. Do they have a lot of monsters around here?”

Geralt sighs, and says, for the third time in the last hour, “It’s just around the curve of the valley. And yes. Lots, so keep walking.”

Ciri is silent for maybe a moment before piping back up again, “If we run into them on the road, you’ll let me help this time? You promised, remember?”

Geralt grunts, annoyed because he did actually promise that.

It had taken about a week after Sodden Hill for Ciri to start talking, but now she had started, it was hard to get her to stop. She seemed to have endless questions, ranging from the important and unanswerable ( _What happened at the battle? Why is Nilffgaard looking for me?)_ to the emotionally difficult ( _Did you know my parents? Do you have parents?)_ to the completely mundane ( _Why do you call your horse Roach?)_

It almost made Geralt miss the sound of the lute. At least with Jaskier he could tell him to shut up (and sometimes Jaskier would actually listen). With Ciri he feels the need to try and answer truthfully as much as he can. He thinks the least he can do for the girl is try and give her as much information as possible. In a world where most people want you dead, knowledge can make the difference between coin in your hand or a knife in your back.

Geralt knows that from hard-won experience.

“So, is this it?” Ciri asks him when the village finally comes into view and for once, Geralt knows that’s not a question that needs answering.

The village, is undoubtedly there, but the extent to which it can actually deserves the title is doubtful.

“It’s quite um, small,” Ciri says in her best diplomatic court voice and Geralt frowns, pulling Roach to a halt.

“It’s a shithole,” he says, and Ciri makes a face but nods sadly in agreement.

There are about ten buildings and it’s hard to tell what’s a house and what’s a pigpen. Everything is covered in mud and there are no lights in the windows. Geralt sighs and sets forward again, expecting another ghost town.

“It’s like the others,” Ciri says quietly next to him, “Abandoned.”

“It’s a roof for the night.”

“Perhaps they left something behind this time,” Ciri says hopefully and Geralt makes a hum of agreement, even though he doubts it.

They’ve passed a dozen places like this, wrecked by the war and filled only with whatever the refugees couldn’t afford to take with them. At least there seem to be no corpses here; Ciri has seen enough dead to last anyone a lifetime.

They’re halfway down the main street when a noise comes from behind them, from one of the empty buildings. Geralt whirls, one hand on his sword and ready to push Ciri behind him, but then he sees its just two young girls, running hand in hand towards them through the mug.

As they run past, Geralt reaches out a hand to stop them saying urgently, “What is it? What’s chasing you?”

They stop, panting and give him a look of complete confusion. They look young, younger than Ciri even and oddly unafraid.

“Nothing’s chasing us old man,” the taller one says, looking him up and down with a look of intense annoyance. “Who are you anyway?”

“C’mon Nessa, let’s go, we’re gonna be late,” the other girl says, tugging at the tall girl’s dress. “He’s probably started already!”

The tall girl sniffs at Geralt and then her eyes slide over to Ciri.  
  


“You should come too,” she says, tone a little softer. “He won’t be back here for _months_.”

“Who is he?” Ciri asks, nonplussed but by then the smaller girl finally succeeds in dragging her friend away and the two of them run off, giggling.

Geralt and Ciri look after them and then at each other.

“What wa-“Ciri begins but Geralt cuts her off, shrugging, “I don’t know.”

“Well, should we find out?” Ciri says eagerly, looking after the girls. “Maybe it’s a sorcerer and he’s put the town under a curse.”

“All the more reason to not go and find out.”

Ciri shoots him a sly look. “You’re just annoyed she called you old man.”

“I _am_ old,” Geralt says sourly. “I’m over 90.”

“Hmm,” Ciri says in a way that means, _I believe it_.

Following the girls they start to hear noises; laughter, shouting, the sound of feet stamping and then, turning a corner the tavern comes into the view. Compared to the rest of the hollowed out houses this building is a beacon of warmth and noise. Golden light spills from every window along with the smell of crackling pork and spiced wines.

Ciri’s eyes light up and she starts to run forward before Geralt reaches out and catches her arm.

“Hold on,” he tells her. “Where’s your hat?”

She rolls her eyes but pulls it out of her pack, twisting up her white blonde locks beneath it.

“Happy now?” she asks and Geralt gives her a considered look. She looks dirty from the road but her eyes still give her away. But it will have to do. This disguise has worked so far at least. Perhaps, in this nowhere town, their luck will continue to hold.

She nods and before he can tell her to wait just a second more while he ties up Roach, she’s off and running towards the Inn’s entrance.

Geralt wants to shout after her but that would draw too much attention so instead he just growls under his breath and goes to hitch Roach to the wall. As he does, something catches his eye, fluttering and white in front of him; a tacked up poster advertising tonight’s act.

There’s ana rough sketching on it, of a man smiling widely beneath the words, _For One Night Only, The Famous Dandelion_! The name means nothing to Geralt but when he leans closer to peer at the sketch, there’s something strangely familiar, badly drawn though the eyes are….

“No,” he tells Roach. “I know what you’re thinking but he’s long gone by now. Probably serenading under the balcony of some nobleman’s wife.”

Then, from inside the building, he hears the lute begin to play and his head whips up and around.

“Oh fuck,” Geralt says, with extreme feeling.

When Roach whinnies gently beside him, Geralt tells him to shut up.

* * *

Inside the place is heaving and for once, no one looks at Geralt when he walks in and makes his way over to Ciri, who’s leaning back against the wall.

They’re all watching the stage and then, despite every warning going through his head, Geralt does too.

His jaw doesn’t quite drop but it’s a close call because, nothing could have prepared him for the performance currently underway on stage.

It’s… well, it’s definitely Jaskier. It’s also a shirt that’s missing half of its buttons and a stomping roiling beat that Geralt has never heard before. Above all it’s some of the most obscenely raunchy lyrics that Geralt has ever heard, delivered in a tone so dripping in sex that Geralt feels a sudden urge to cover Ciri’s ears.

Jaskier launches into a fresh verse of a song that, as far as Geralt can tell, seems to be detailing the adventures of a curious maid and a band of well-endowed pirates. The performance is obscene, it’s _filthy_ and the audience are eating it up, laughing and singing along and stamping for more.

“Are you alright?” Ciri asks and Geralt wonders what the expression on his face must be like to make her sound so concerned.

“I know him,” Geralt confesses and watches her blue eyes get almost comically large.

“Really?” she asks and then, as if she doesn’t believe it. “Is he a friend?”

“I’ve known him for a long time,” Geralt says and doesn’t answer her. They might have been friends once, but Geralt had been the one to cast that away.

“You meet a lot of interesting people,” Ciri says mildly as onstage, Jaskier does something complicated using mainly his hips. It should be embarrassing but Geralt finds himself watching intently and that’s when Jaskier finally looks up and sees him through the crowd.

For a moment he stumbles, missing a note and without knowing really why, Geralt draws in a sharp breath. Then Jaskier looks away, his expression shuttered, and the song continues.

“He doesn’t seem very pleased to see you,” Ciri mutters and Geralt has to take a breath to stop himself from glaring at her.

“We didn’t…part on the best of terms,” Geralt admits and she nods knowingly.

“Ah,” she says. “You pissed him off.”

Geralt thinks about telling her to mind her language but she’s right. Across the room, Jaskier has launched into a new song, this one about a cheating husband being beaten to death by his mistress and wife; most of the crowd seem to already know the chorus.

“I need a drink,” he announces, and Ciri dutifully follows him as they fight their way across to the bar.

They eat a small meal in the corner, just far enough in the shadows that Geralt can watch the show and not feel Jaskier’s eyes on him. The food is good, surprisingly so but Geralt barely touches it, clutching his mug of ale in front of him like a shield.

“Can I have yours?” Ciri asks when her plate is clean. “If you don’t want it?”

“What?” Geralt says, distracted by wondering how Jaskier gets into trousers that tight. He looks sewn in.

“Nothing,” Ciri says, rolling her eyes and helping herself to his portion of rabbit.

Finally, after what seems like a lifetime, Jaskier’s set ends and he gets down from the stage, sweaty faced and calling out, “Thank you! No, really, thank _you_! You’ve been a great audience, I’ve never had a better one! If anyone wants to buy me a drink I’ll be here all night!”

Geralt looks away, down at his drink and waits for Jaskier to come over and yell at him.

And waits. And waits.

“Are you sure he’s your friend?” Ciri asks dubiously and Geralt scowls over at where Jaskier has wandered over to a table across the room where people crowd around, slapping him on the back.

“I never said that,” Geralt growls and across the room, Jaskier is watching him now with that same blank expression.

It’s infuriating, and Geralt should be used to that, Jaskier has been pestering him ever since they met. But that had been different, that had been Jaskier refusing to leave him alone. Whatever this is, this childish _silent treatment_ , is somehow worse, in a way that Geralt can’t fully understand.

“So should we go over?” Ciri asks, looking between Jaskier and Geralt, both engaged in a silent but intense glowering match.

Geralt doesn’t answer quickly enough and she lets out a huff of frustration, her chair rattling as she stands up.

“Look if you’re not going over there, I will,” she announces and, before Geralt can stop her she’s already threading her way across the room.

Back in the old days, Geralt would never have run after someone but in the old days people had come to him. Ciri has ruined him though and so now he stands and reluctantly goes after her, cursing under his breath.

It feels like a strange echo of their first meeting, to be walking across to Jaskier across a tavern but that had been different. Jaskier isn’t alone, he’s surrounded by people that seem to think the sun shines out of his arse. Geralt had been alone when Jaskier had first met him; he had almost always been alone back then.

Ahead of him, Ciri is already leaning down to talk to Jaskier, to the visible annoyance of the other occupants of the table who mostly appear to be scantily clad young woman.

“Oh hello,” she says innocently when Geralt makes his way over, “You decided to join us then?”

  
Jaskier looks up at Geralt and for a moment he almost seems like himself. Then his expression hardens, and he leans back in his chair.

“Well if it isn’t my old pal, Geralt of Rivia,” he says in a way that’s probably meant to sound arch.

“ _Dandelion_ ,” Geralt says, crossing his arms and allowing himself a smirk.

Jaskier’s cheeks flush. “It’s a stage name. Do you like it? No wait, don’t answer that. I don’t care.”

“It’s been a while. You’ve changed your look.”

“And you obviously haven’t changed at all,” Jaskier says and turns away to one of the girls at his side. “Hyacinth, would you be a dear and fetch me some more mead? My throat is a little sore after all the singing.”

“Of course, Dandelion,” she gushes, and she practically skips off to the bar.

Ciri obviously sees an opportunity, because she slides into the vacant seat, saying in a sugary sweet tone, “Oh it’s so wonderful to meet one of my uncle’s friends finally. He never told me he knew such a talented bard.”

“Talented?” Jaskier says happily and then he frowns. “Wait, uncle?”

Geralt gives Ciri a warning glance but she’s already launched into their agreed upon cover story.

  
“Well, grand uncle really,” she says quickly, “We’ve only just reunited after all these years. My poor mother and father were victims of the Nilffgaard attack.”

“Uh huh, uh huh,” Jaskier says quickly, distracted and to Geralt he says, “So maybe you have changed after all.”

Geralt glances around and then leans down to say in a low whisper, “Can we talk?”

“Don’t tell me you got chatty in my absence Geralt,” Jaskier says, glaring.

“What’s that stuff around your eyes?” Geralt asks, suddenly distracted and then peers closer, “Are you wearing makeup?”

“No!” Jaskier yelps, pulling back and then, in a low hiss, “Look, this is my new look alright? It’s all part of the act. I tried out some new material a while back and people seemed to like it-“

“You sold out,” Geralt says flatly. “And now you’re what, whoring yourself out-“

“You know what, fuck you!” Jaskier says, a bright line of red rising along each cheekbone. “You can’t just fuck off for a year and then come back out of nowhere without even a sorry-“

“Well I like your songs,” Ciri says loudly, cutting across them. “They’re exciting. Funny.”

Jaskier gives her a wide, almost boyish smile. “Thank you, Miss-?”

“Fiona,” Ciri says, a little too quickly and one of Jaskier’s eyebrows creeps up.

“Fiona, could you go and check on Roach?” Geralt asks her in a low tone and when she frowns at him, he sighs and says. “Please?”

She nods and reluctantly gets up from the table.

The minute she’s out of earshot, Jaskier says in a snide tone, “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you use that word. Fatherhood has softened you Geralt.”

“She’s my grandniece,” Geralt says without much conviction.

Jaskier just scoffs. “Oh, come off it, Geralt, I might not have seen you for the last year but there’s no way you suddenly have a brand-new family out of nowhere. You don’t think I recognise Pavetta’s eyes? You should tell the princess to pick better fake na-“

Geralt grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him up, hissing, “Keep your voice down- have those trousers cut off the circulation to your brain?”

He looks around but no one seems to have heard them and Geralt loosens his grip a little. He can smell Jaskier this close, the pounding of his heart, the sweat still lingering on his skin. He doesn’t smell of fear, though, at least that hasn’t changed, but he smells of something else, something almost addictively sweet-

“What’s that about my trousers?” Jaskier asks in a rough voice, eyes still very blue even under all the dark smudges of paint.

Geralt opens his mouth and he’s halfway to saying, _I’m sorry, I should never have said those things_ , I _shouldn’t have left like that_ , when a heavy hand falls on his shoulder.

“I suggest you let him go, Witcher,” a deep voice growls and when Geralt looks back over his shoulder, there’s a man standing there, almost as tall as him with his fists squared.

Geralt’s about to snarl at him and tell him to back off when Jaskier holds up his hands saying, “It’s alright Joff, this is a friend.”

Joff’s eyes narrow above a nose that looks maybe twice broken. “Doesn’t look very friendly to me Mr Dandelion.”

“He’s just bad at showing affection,” Jaskier says hurriedly and then to Geralt, “You can let go now.”

Geralt does so, reluctantly and then Ciri is popping up at his side, looking between the three of them.

“Is everything alright,” she asks warily and Geralt takes a breath and tries to relax his shoulders.

“It’s fine,” he tells her, still eyeing up Jaskier’s friend warily.

“Geralt was just meeting my entourage,” Jaskier says, still breathing a little hard. “That’s Joff and over there are Melody and Saph. They play as well actually- I guess you could say we’re sort a travelling band.”

“What does Joff play?” Cirra asks innocently and Jaskier flushes red again, looking shifty.

“He’s ah, more of a travelling companion,” he says and Geralt feels something twist in in the pit of his stomach, hot and angry.

“It didn’t take you long to find a replacement,” he says and then winces internally because it comes out bitter and jealous.

“Except this time, people _want_ to travel with me,” Jaskier retorts hotly. “They’re _choosing_ to instead of acting like they’re being dragged into it.”

“So, you’re telling me you aren’t hired muscle,” Geralt asks Joff, ignoring Jaskier completely.

“I like the music,” the man says, smiling or at least revealing a mouthful of teeth.

_He’s not un-handsome_ , Geralt notes sourly and through gritted teeth he says, “I bet you do.”

There’s a moment of loaded silence and then Jaskier is clearing his throat and saying, “Well it was lovely to see you again, Geralt, a pleasure as always but we really must be on our way. Maybe you’ll pop up in another decade or so.”

The girl Hyacinth chooses that moment to come back with the drinks and Jaskier grasps eagerly at the tray, looking grateful for the distraction.

He’s avoiding Geralt’s eyes and all at once, the anger leaves Geralt and he just feels cold, turning away.

Ciri is watching him with that measure, knowing gaze and he tries to remember what’s important; keeping her safe, keeping their heads down. They’ll stay the night here and leave in the morning, keep making their way to the border.

He’s about to leave without looking back when he catches the scent of something in the air, sharp and acrid. He sniffs and then suddenly he’s moving, lunging back to smack the mug of mead from his hands.

Jaskier yelps out, “Oh really Geralt that’s just childish-“and then he’s rearing back in shock as the table begins to burn and blister where the mead has spilt, sending black smoke spiralling upwards.

“Poison or magic?” Ciri asks and Geralt shakes his head.

“Neither,” he says darkly. “That’s acid.”

Jaskier puts one hand to his throat and looks up at Hyacinth who looks horrified.

“I swear Dandelion I would never…” she starts but Jaskier waves her off, looking suddenly very tired.

“No, I know, it could have been anyone here,” he says and then he turns to Joff, “I guess we’re leaving earlier than we thought. They’ve found us again.”

“Wait,” Geralt says. “Again? How many times have people tried to poison you?”

Jaskier groans and scrubs a hand over his face.

“It’s not always poison,” he says wearily. “Last week it was an arrow through the window. The last inn I stayed at was set on fire during the night. The worst one was two days ago- someone left a snake in my lute.”

“Do you know who it is?” Geralt asks, concerned despite himself. If Jaskier had drunk from that cup…he remembers suddenly the aftermath of the djinn, Jaskier white faced and spitting up blood.

“No, but don’t let it worry you,” Jaskier says shortly, already turning away, “I have it under control. In two days we’ll be across the border and performing in an actual city instead of this, no offense, horrible little backwater town.”

“You think whoever’s trying to kill you won’t cross the border?” Geralt says, unconvinced.

“I think,” Jaskier says acidly, “That in the city I can hire a mercenary to watch my back.”

“What about him,” Geralt asks, nodding at Joff who shoots him a nasty look in return.

“That’s ah, not his job,” Jaskier mutters and looks away.

Geralt narrows his eyes and wonders just what the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

“You know what,” he growls, “That’s fine. Good luck not getting murdered.”

He turns away and makes it three steps before he realises Ciri isn’t by his side. When he looks back she’s just standing there, looking after him with a strange, calculating kind of frown on her face.

“Whatever you’re thinking…” he begins but it’s too late.

“What if you hired a Witcher for a bodyguard?” she says loudly and then, when Jaskier at her, wide eyed, she continues, “Wouldn’t that be more of a threat than a hired mercenary?”

“C-“Geralt begins and then catches himself. “Fiona. I don’t know if that-“

“At least until the border,” she says insistently, looking up at him in a way that’s almost pleading. “We’re going that way anyway.”

Geralt feels his jaw twitch and he reluctantly looks over at Jaskier, who looks just as sulky at the idea.

“I suppose it would be helpful,” Jaskier says. “As a business arrangement. Especially if you can do that poison smelling thing. How much do you want?”

“I’m not taking your money,” Geralt snaps, even though he really does need it, especially with a human teenager to feed.

Ciri looks between them and then lets out a frustrated huff.

“Look,” she says going up to Jaskier, “Give me a coin.”

Jaskier fishes one out of the collection tin doubtfully and Ciri practically snatches it from his hand before holding it out to Geralt.

“There,” she says when his fingers close around it. “Now it’s a contract. We’ll get you to the border in two days. Alive.”

* * *

“If we’re travelling with a group, we’re less suspicious,” Ciri tells him later that night, when it’s just the two of them alone in a rented room above the inn. “And this way we don’t have to travel through the back roads- we’ll be there in half the time.”

Geralt doesn’t tell her it’s a bad idea, partly because he’s said that three times already but also because he has a sneaking suspicion, she might actually be right. Still, he hates it, hates the thought of spending the next two days watching Jaskier prance around onstage, especially if anymore of his songs attempt to rhyme ‘decapitation’ with ‘fornication’. He hates lying in the dark like this, listening the noise through the walls.

“Get some sleep,” he tells Ciri. “We have a long road ahead of us tomorrow.”

There’s the sound of rustling from the bed across the room and then after a moment, her breathing steadies out. She sleeps more easily now than when they had met but that might be from the exhaustion of the hard travel.

Jaskier and his party were staying here tonight too and Geralt’s thoughts keep catching on whose room Jaskier is sleeping in tonight, whose bed. It’s infuriating to suddenly feel so concerned about where he is and what he’s doing, particularly after a year spent not thinking about Jaskier at all.

Well, hardly at all.

* * *

To Ciri’s visible delight there’s a coach downstairs waiting for them the next morning, large enough to fit them all inside with room to spare. It’s ridiculously plush, with gilt accents on the wheels and decked out in the gaudiest colours Geralt has ever had the misfortune of seeing. When he sees the banner on the side, announcing “THE GREAT BARD DANDELION” in gigantic cursive, Geralt actually snorts.

“So much for being inconspicuous,” he says and Jaskier glares at him from where he’s perched on top, cradling his lute.

“I’ll have you know I designed the decoration of this carriage myself,” he says with a wounded air.

“I can tell,” Geralt says and Ciri hides her smile behind the sleeve of her cloak.

“You can hitch your horse behind,” Joff offers sullenly but Geralt shakes his head.

The prospect of spending the journey trapped in a confined space with all of Jaskier’s sycophantic fans doesn’t appeal. The crowd has thinned a little from last night at least; aside from the looming figure of Joff there’s just two more members of the group. Hyacinth, the would-be poisoner from the night before, and Lora, who apparently plays the flute. Although they looked very different in appearance, the former dark and short, the latter very pale and curvy, they were alike in how much they seemed to adore Jaskier.

They were alike also, in their not-very-well concealed interest curiosity over travelling with a Witcher; shooting Geralt sidelong glances and then turning to whisper into each other’s ears. 

“I’ll ride alongside,” Geralt says stubbornly and then, when Ciri’s face falls, he relents, “You can ride in the carriage if you like.”

“It’s not that I don’t like riding Roach,” she says. “But the smell…”

“Roach doesn’t smell,” Geralt says, a little defensively.

“You can ride up here with me if you want fresh air,” Jaskier calls down to her and Ciri, glances at Geralt before scrambling up on top.

“Don’t fall off,” Geralt growls and Ciri laughs at him.

“I think I’ll be okay.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Geralt says and Jaskier sniffs, turning pointedly away.

* * *

The morning goes by almost pleasantly, mostly because Jaskier’s crew stay inside the carriage and only occasionally emerge to ask him if he needs anymore grapes. Joff is driving up front, but that’s alright because it means Geralt doesn’t have to look at him.

It’s a beautiful morning, the sun burning off the low mist still hanging onto the fields around them and with all the birdsong, it’s hard to tell that the war is raging on, that somewhere, people are dying under Nilfgaardian swords.

For the last mile or so Jaskier has been playing quietly, at Ciri’s request. He seems to be staying away from the bawdier new material, probably sensing Geralt’s eyes on the back of his head.

Ciri seems to be enjoying herself though, requesting old court favourites and after a while she starts singing along quietly under her breath. Her voice is thin and a little reedy but Jaskier matches his own voice to accompany her and together they sound almost sweet, the tune soft and lilting. Geralt watches the road ahead but he listens instently, telling himself that it’s nice to hear Ciri sound so at ease, almost happy.

When the song ends Jaskier smiles at her broadly and says, “Well, what do you think? Shall we make this act a duet? How would you like to join me on the road?”

Ciri laughs at him out loud and Geralt feels his own lips quick up as he watches her. She looks for a moment, like the child she is, pink cheeked in the morning light.

“What about Geralt? Will he sing too?” she asks and Jaskier pretends to think about it, his chin in his hands.

“Maybe he could play the fiddle for us,” he says and then his eyes slide over to Geralt. “What do you say?”

“I think the two of you might be better off without me,” Geralt says and he means it to be light, but it comes out more grave than intended.

Jaskier blinks at him, looking almost surprised and then he recovers with a smile.

“Come to think of it, I’ve never heard you sing. With a voice like that, you must be hiding a hell of a baritone.”

“I don’t sing,” Geralt says flatly.

“Not even the song about the Witcher?” Ciri asks and then turns to Jaskier, “Do you know that one? Valley of Plenty?”

“Actually,” Jaskier says, obviously trying hard to be nonchalant, “I wrote it.”

“Really?” Ciri asks. “For Geralt?”

Jaskier begins to splutter and then Ciri frowns and says, “Wait, that songs been playing since I was a baby. I thought it was ancient. How old are you?”

Jaskier turns red and glowers over at Geralt, who’s failing to hide his amusement.

“That’s a rude question,” he says and then makes a blatant bid to change the subject, “Do you know I met your parents once?”

“Really?” Ciri asks and then her breathe catches, “But… does that mean, you _know_..?”

“Who you really are?” Jaskier finishes and then shrugs, “Yes but don’t worry. I’m much more perceptive than the average man. A poet always sees the truth of the matter, Princess.”

Geralt can’t help but roll his eyes at this but if Jaskier sees him, he makes no indication, launching into the story of the Pavetta and Dury’s engagement party. Ciri must have heard some version of this before, presumably with the Witcher element removed, but she listens raptly anyway as Jaskier describes her father fighting side by side with Eist, her mother’s magic, the Queen’s tears as she relinquished her daughter’s hand in marriage.

It’s a good story, Geralt has to admit, made better by Jaskier’s telling of it. In Jaskier’s version, Geralt appears as some wise, powerful hero, stepping in to restore the thread of destiny. He doesn’t mention why, Geralt was there in the first place or indeed, talk about himself at all. With Jaskier’s removal from the tale, Geralt’s presence becomes almost mythic, a strange outsider appearing for one night only, leaving when he was no longer needed.

Geralt begins to see for the first time, the version of himself that Jaskier spent so long creating. Geralt had noticed the changes himself at the time but they had been small; people giving a little more money, a little less insults being thrown his way. He had heard them sing the song for him and it had always been more embarrassing than anything else. Now he wonders if in fact, Jaskier had actually given him a lot more than he had realized at the time. Made him into a hero instead of a monster. A butcher.

Ciri laughs and Geralt looks up at the two of them from the corner of his eye. Jaskier is doing a impression of Geralt’s voice as he re-enacts some pivotal scene in the story. While it’s not particularly flattering (Geralt’s voice isn’t _that_ deep) it’s undeniably amusing, so much so that Geralt has to keep looking away at the distant hills to hide his smile.

Jaskier looks different this morning; fresh faced and wearing an old blue outfit Geralt vaguely recognises from a year ago. He looks like himself and for a moment when he grins, Geralt feels a strange sense of déjà vu, like no time at all has passed and the dragon hunt never happened.

Then, even as Geralt watches him, Jaskier is looking away, distracted at some point in the distance.

“Wait, what’s…” he says, almost to himself and then his blue eyes widen. “Oh _fuck_.”

The Jaskier is throwing himself forward, down over Ciri, even as the first arrow lands with a dull thunk in the wood of the carriage.

“What’s happening?” Ciri calls out and then Jaskier curses, holding up a hand to shield her as the second arrow hits just inches from the discarded lute. Geralt snarls and pulls Roach up sharply, scanning the horizon and then he sees it, the outlined figure of an archer on horseback.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks and then yelps as another arrow whizzes past his ear.

“Get behind the carriage,” Geralt snaps. “Protect Ciri.”

Then he’s spurring Roach on and up towards the hill, feeling the rage building in his chest _._

_Stupid, stupid, to be so distracted. That shot could have found its mark. It could have hit Ciri instead._

Ahead of him the figure is lowering its bow, notching another arrow. You can’t outrun an archer on horseback in open cover; the best he can hope for is that they will start shooting at the angry man riding towards them instead of the vulnerable target of the carriage.

Even so, Geralt readies _Aard_ and when the next arrow is let loose, he’s ready, knocking it out of the sky, his other hands fisted in the reins.

The archer lets loose two more shots before turning their horse to flee, but Geralt is nearly on them now, Roach’s legs eating up the distance like it’s nothing. Up close, the figure is hooded and smaller than expected but a terrible rider, barely holding their place in the saddle.

Geralt readies _Aard_ again, thinking to knock them from the horse but then fate intervenes in the form of a small stream running down the hillside. The hooded figure urges it’s horse to leap over it but the movement is too abrubt and the creature stumbles, hooves caught in the shifting pebbles.

Geralt draws Roach to a sharp halt in time to see the rider fall, cursing into the stream.

“Fuck,” Geralt hears them curse, “Stupid animal!”

The newly riderless horse, seemingly unimpressed, whinnies and trots off, leaving its rider floundering in the cold mountain water.

Geralt slides off Roach’s back and draws his sword.

“You have two minutes to tell me why you’re trying to kill the bard,” he tells them. “When that time’s up I may or may not kill you. Depending on how justified your reasons are.”

“Fuck you Witcher!” the figure says cursing and struggles to their feet in the stream. “Tell your bard to return what he stole from me or next time I won’t miss!”

For the first time Geralt notices the curls of brown hair falling from under the hood and all at once he realises the voice is female. He doesn’t lower the sword, but he does hesitate and pick his next words very carefully.

“It wasn’t your heart he stole was it?” he asks and then scowls as another possibility occurs to him.

“Please tell me it wasn’t your husband.”

The figure laughs bitterly and then reaches down into her pocket and pulls out a small green glass ball.

“Oh, it’s about love Witcher, but it’s not what you think,” she spits out and then she throws the glass orb down onto the ground where it smashes on the rocks, billowing out green smoke.

When the smoke clears, the figure is gone and Geralt brings a hand to his nose, the stench of magic fresh in the air. He pokes around but all he can see are small fragments of glass, glinting among the pebbles.

This was showy magic, more of a parlour trick than anything but obviously effective. Powerful but bottled rather than innate. Geralt feels a familiar urge to talk to Yennefer. She would know more than him about this. Not to mention, her favourite trick was using her magic for timely exits.

There’s nothing more to see here and he’s been gone too long anyway, so he makes his way back to the carriage, still mulling over the woman’s words.

He finds the carriage a little further down the road, hidden behind a rocky outcrop, the horses reined in but nervous, pacing at the ground.

There’s no sign of people but as he gets closer, the carriage door opens and a messy cloud of white hair tumbles out and runs up to Roach. Geralt hops down off Roach just in time to be wrapped up in a tight hug as Ciri presses her face into his chest. Geralt, still somewhat unfamiliar with the act of hugging, pats her gingerly on the back

“Where’s your hat?” he asks and Ciri pulls her head back to glare at him.

“That’s what you’re worried about? I thought you might be-.”

“It’ll take a lot more than that to kill me,” Geralt says in a way that he hopes is soothing. “You should be more careful. We can’t trust these people.”

“Not even Jaskier?” she asks and Geralt hesitates.

“Alright we can trust him. But the others-“

“Did you find out who it was?” Jaskier calls out and Geralt breaks off to look up at him, framed in the carriage doorway, looking pale and frightened.

“No,” Geralt says and then lets go of Ciri to step closer. “But I found a lot more questions. Have you pissed off many women recently?”

Jaskier frowns. “Not more than usual I think. Why?”

Geralt comes closer and then reaches up behind Jaskier to pluck an arrow from the side of the carriage. Jaskier’s eyes track the movement, inhaling sharply.

“I’ll tell you later,” Geralt says in an undertone, looking past him at the frightened faces watching them from the carriage windows. Joff is watching them too but he doesn’t look panicked, just narrow eyed and intent.

Geralt holds his gaze as he brings the arrow to his nose to smell it but there’s nothing, no lingering magic at all. No curse or poison but the steel is just as deadly without them.

* * *

Geralt makes Ciri and Jaskier ride inside the carriage the rest of the way. Ciri complains loudly about it through the window for at least two miles before Jaskier distracts her with another story.

Geralt suspects the incident has shaken Jaskier too, even if he tries to hide it, and the mood the rest of the way is nervous, the entourage muttering darkly amongst themselves. There’s an audible sigh of relief when the next town comes into view and even Geralt feels himself relax slightly when they finally stop at the local Inn. He’s been mulling the woman’s words over in his mind throughout the last legs of their journey and the mystery of It has only served to make him frustrated and eager for a drink.

_It’s about love_ , she had said and what did that mean? Was this assassination some form of stalkerish obsession? Or had Jaskier jilted her and moved on? This wouldn’t be the first time Geralt had protected Jaskier from the consequences of his romantic endeavours.

The attempted murder has made them late it seems and no sooner than they arrive at the Inn, than Jaskier is being rushed away by his companions to prepare for the stage. By the time that Ciri and Geralt come down from their room and taking supper by the fireside, Jaskier’s performance is well underway. The dark smudges around his eyes have reappered, along with the incredibly impractical trousers and he’s crooning out some bloody tale about two sisters fighting over a well-endowed blacksmith.

“I see why you were so surprised to see him like this,” Ciri says through a mouthful of stew. “He’s quite different on-stage isn’t he?” 

“Eat your food,” Geralt tells her and then after a moment he can’t help but say, “He wasn’t always like this. When I met him.”

“No?” Ciri asks, leaning forward with interest. “What did he sing about?”

Geralt shrugs. “Just everyday things. Stories. Love songs.”

_Me_ , he thinks but doesn’t say because it would come out childish and bitter. It’s not what Jaskier’s singing about though that bothers him, not really. It’s the style. It’s the way the crowd seem to devour him. It’s the eyeliner and the ridiculous hip thrusting and…well maybe it’s about the trousers as well.

Ciri nods but she’s frowning like she doesn’t quite have all the pieces of the puzzle.

“What happened with you two?” she asks quietly. “At the end?”

Geralt looks down at his stew for a long moment as if he’s going to find a way out of the conversation in the bottom of the bowl.

Finally, he sighs. “I… said some things. That weren’t very nice. To make him go away. And it worked.”

“You pushed him away,” Ciri says softly and then gives him one of her clear-eyed looks, the ones that make her seem so much older than she is. “Are you going to push me away one day Geralt?”

“No,” Geralt says quickly. “No. I’ll be here as long as you need me. We’re bound together by destiny, you and I.”

Ciri rolls her eyes. “Are you going to let destiny pick all your friends for you?”

Geralt scowls and pushes her bowl towards her.

“Eat your stew.”

* * *

Ciri must be more worn out than she’s letting on because not long after that she leaves for bed. Geralt stays down at the bar to finish his drink and tries to pretend he’s not watching the show.

Jaskier must be exhausted by now; ten songs in on an empty stomach and a day of hard travel but he doesn’t look it. He looks like he’s high; all white teeth and flashing eyes, downing the mugs of ale that keep being passed up from the crowd. In light of the recent poison attempts Geralt wonders if that’s a good idea, but the crowd seem to love him, cheering after every song and singing along to even the most raunchy of lyrics. During a break between songs, one man in the audience leans forward to catch Jaskier’s arm and Geralt tenses, bracing himself for a fight. But the man just leans in to whisper in Jaskier ear and then Jaskier is laughing and pulling away, calling out, “I’ve had a request for ‘A Tale of Two Stabbings’! Who wants to hear that?”

The crowd roars its approval and Geralt suddenly feels fed up with the whole stupid business. Jaskier launches into the song, practically fluttering his eyelashes at the requester and Geralt looks away, downing the rest of his mug.

Suddenly unable to bear the heat of the crowded room, Geralt slips out a side door to the courtyard. It’s close enough to hear any potential screams and the night air is crisp and sweet. He can’t smell the sweat any more or taste the raw human emotions that had hung heavy in the room; the adrenaline, the lust. Just thinking of it and the strands of sweaty hair that had fallen in Jaskier’s face, makes Geralt uncomfortable, itchy in a way he doesn’t know how to scratch.

He leans back against the wall and tries to centre his thoughts. He should be focused on Ciri right now. On protecting _her_ , not some disaster-prone bard who he should have left behind long ago. Jaskier always made things so _complicated_ , tangled Geralt up when things should be simple.

“I should have known you’d be out here brooding when there’s a perfectly good party going on inside,” he hears a voice say behind him and when he looks over, Jaskier is standing there in the doorway, the golden light spilling out around him along with the smell of booze and the bustle of the crowd.

“Shouldn’t you be on stage?” Geralt growls but Jaskier just closes the door behind him, stepping closer.

“It’s the intermission,” he says. “Why are you hiding out here? Shouldn’t you be upstairs protecting her majesty?”

He says this last part in a hushed tone but Geralt shoots him a warning glance anyway.

“She’s asleep,” Geralt says. “And in case you’ve forgotten I’ve been hired to protect you too.”

“And you’re doing it by sulking outside in the dark? If you hate my music so much, I’m sure I can find some beeswax for your ears.”

“I don’t hate your music,” Geralt says, without thinking and Jaskier blinks, looking taken aback.

“You’re doing an excellent impression of it then,” he says, when he regains himself. “You’ve been looking like someone’s pissed in your ale all night. I always knew you hated my singing but you were never this obvious about it.”

Geralt huffs out a breath. “It’s not your singing. It’s what you’re singing about. All this relishing in blood. You’d think people would have enough if it in their normal lives.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to retort and then looks oddly thoughtful, taking a step closer. He’s wearing that stupid thin shirt again, open almost to the stomach and he’s shivering slightly in the cold. This annoys Geralt for a reason he can’t quite understand.

“You know, I wondered that too,” Jaskier muses. “I suppose they like that it’s fake. It’s an escape for them.”

He comes even closer and Geralt can smell him now, the sweat in his hair, the perfume of some audience member who’s leaned in too close.

“It’s not just the murder remember,” Jaskier says and his voice sounds husky from overuse. “It’s the sex too remember. “

“Is that why you’re dressing like that?” Geralt says before he can stop himself. “You’re selling sex now?”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow. “You’ve always appreciated whores before Geralt. Where does this sudden moral purity come from? Is it just when I move on, try and change things up? We can’t all look the same forever you know.”

“It didn’t take you long did it?” Geralt snaps, standing up from the wall. “You always land on your feet don’t you? The rest of the country has gone to war but here you are with your new look. New friends.”

Jaskier freezes up and then looks genuinely angry for the first time.

“New frie- Is this about Joff?” he asks, “What exactly is your problem with him? Did you expect me to just sit around and cry after you told me to fuck off?”

“I didn’t tell you to-“Geralt says but then Jaskier is pushing forward, jabbing his finger into Geralt’s chest.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t because you did,” he snaps, “I know you had some big destiny to attend to, some grand love story with Yennefer but I thought I was at least your friend-“

“You were,” Geralt growls out and then grabs Jaskier’s hand before he can poke him again. “You were my friend.”

“Yeah I-“ Jaskier says hotly and then stops, startled. “You’ve never said that before.”

Geralt looks at him, suddenly panicked and then wishes desperately that Jaskier wasn’t wearing a shirt that unbuttoned. It’s making it hard to focus; he’s fairly sure he’s already given away too much. Jaskier’s looking up at him, all big eyes and open mouthed and then before Geralt can really think about it, he’s pulling Jaskier towards him by the fabric of his stupid shirt and they’re kissing, hard and desperate.

Geralt pushes him back against the wall of the inn and it’s not gentle or tender but that’s alright because Jaskier is giving back everything he’s got, clawing at Geralt’s jacket like he’s going crazy for it. For once he isn’t talking and Geralt almost wishes he would, wishes he could hear Jaskier’s voice right now because from the way his hips are moving he must sound completely wrecked, his voice would be broken in a way it never had from singing those stupid sexy songs for all those people. All those people watching him but this, this was just for Geralt to see, the way Jaskier gasped when Geralt’s hands slipped inside the fabric of his shirt.

The thought of the waiting audience makes Geralt pull back though, leaving Jaskier practically gasping for air, all dark eyes and newly rumpled clothes.

“Do you need to be inside right now?” Geralt asks carefully. He wants to give Jaskier a chance too stop things here, before they go any further. He can’t quite bear to let go completely though, so one hand is still at Jaskier’s shoulder, just next to the ridge of his breastbone.

Jaskier doesn’t look over at the door and when Geralt’s thumb rubs over the hollow of his neck, he visibly shivers.

“I think they’ve had enough for one night,” he rasps out. “You know what they say- always leave them wanting more.”

Something about the way Jaskier says the word ‘wanting’ makes Geralt feel out of control and he leans in to kiss him again, rough and quick.

“Upstairs then?” he suggests and Jaskier nods with a sharp jerky motion.

They somehow make it up to the upper corridors of the inn without being caught by anybody and there’s something almost endearing about the way Jaskier half trips over himself on the stairway. He seems dazed; like this is a dream.

Jaskier hovers in the corridor, like he doesn’t know what to do now they’re here, and when he looks over his shoulder he catches Geralt watching him. For once Geralt doesn’t look away. He lets Jaskier see in his eyes all the things Geralt wants to do to him and watches the way Jaskier goes still and silent, like a deer in a forest clearing. Geralt can hear his heartbeat pick up, even across the space between them.

“Your room or mine?” Jaskier asks in a hushed voice.

“Yours. Ciri is sleeping.”

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier says, dry even now. “I forget you’re a daddy now.”

“Don’t call me that,” Geralt tells him, stepping closer and relishing the way Jaskier’s pulse flutters at his neck.

“Or what?” Jaskier says and Geralt presses in to kiss the smug smile off his face.

It’s not until they’re at the entrance to Jaskier’s room that a horrible thought occurs to him. He stills with one hand on the doorknob.

“Wait- is there anyone in there?” he grits out and thinks that if he sees Joff’s ugly face right now he might just smash it.

But Jaskier just blinks, looking baffled. “Why would there be anyone in there? It’s my room.”

Geralt pauses and then just shrugs and opens the door. Jaskier trails after him, looking like he wants to press the point so Geralt distracts him in the best way he knows.

After that it doesn’t take long before he has Jaskier spread out beneath him on the creaking bed, his hands buried in Geralt’s hair and muttering a seemingly inexhaustible range of obscenities into Geralt’s ear. At some point Geralt gives up on all the complicated laces of Jaskier’s shirt and just rips the damn thing and after that it’s hard to tear himself away from the smooth skin of Jaskier’s neck, especially with all the sounds that Jaskier is making in response.

There must be some trick to Jaskier’s trousers because Jaskier has wiggled himself out of them and is halfway through doing the same to Geralt’s before Geralt even realizes what’s happening. He takes notice when Jaskier gets his hands on Geralt’s cock though. Jaskier is good at this, Geralt realizes with an odd mixture of lust and jealousy, he’s had _practice_.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” Jaskier is saying, muffled into Geralt’s neck as he works his hand. “I can’t believe I’m actually getting you off right now. Am I? This is getting you off right? I mean, you’re hard but maybe that’s just a Witcher thing.”

Geralt actually manages to laugh, even as his hips twitch up for more. He’s watched Jaskier’s hands play on his lute, wrap around a mug of ale, flutter around when he’s trying to explain some tricky part of a story. Now those same hands are working on him and it’s good, it’s so good but Geralt wants more; he wants _everything_.

“I missed you,” he admits and then groans when Jaskier’s hand stops moving.

“You missed me because of my handjobs?” Jaskier asks, sounding genuinely confused. “But we’ve never done this before.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and put his hands on Jaskier’s cock to shut him up. From this angle he can grind down on them, cover Jaskier up with his body, hold him by the waist as he bites at his neck. It feels intoxicating, being able to let out all the annoyance and tension of the past few days, fuck, the past few _decades_. To take it out on Jaskier’s pale skin and long limbs and mouth, gods, if Geralt had only thought of this use for Jaskier’s mouth years before now.

“We should have done this before,” Jaskier is muttering, as if reading Geralt’s mind. “We should have, _oh fuck,_ we should have done this the minute the first met, I wanted to. Why did it take so, _ah_ , long?”

He’s coming apart now under Geralt’s hands and Geralt knows this will be over quickly for both of them, maybe embarrassingly so but that’s alright, Witcher’s have short refractory periods. Geralt knows that he can get another orgasm out of Jaskier before the night is over, maybe two and wouldn’t that be a sight, Jaskier wrecked and strung out and ruined by Geralt’s hands and mouth and cock.

The thought of it is almost enough to make Geralt come right there but he holds on, long enough to wrap his hand around both their cocks and kiss Jaskier deep and dirty as he can make it thinking, no one else is going to see you like this tonight, no one else is going to make you feel like this.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier is babbling in his ear, writhing below him and then the orgasm hits so suddenly it’s like being punched in the face.

* * *

Somewhere in between round two and three that night Jaskier looks over and says, “I missed you too. While you were gone.”

Geralt looks at him, at the smeared eyeliner and sincere expression and suddenly feels a pang of something almost painful. It’s almost like desire but softer, more dangerous.

Later when he’s sneaking back to the room he shares with Ciri he tries not to think about it. Adding sex to the equation was complicated enough.

Even so, dawn is creeping into the room by the time he manages to sleep that night.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Ciri takes one look at the shadows under Geralt’s eyes and seems to immediately draw her own conclusions about what happened the night before.

“Did anything exciting happen after I left?” she asks, raising one eyebrow.

“No,” Geralt says shortly, trying not to scowl. “Just more singing.”

She just hums in polite agreement, clearly not believing a word. Geralt decides to let it go. Anything he says at this point would only serve to make him look more guilty. 

When they go downstairs the others are waiting for them. Jaskier looks practically comatose where he’s leaning back against the carriage. He’s wearing a cloak despite the mild weather but it’s not quite high enough at the neckline and when he turns his head Geralt can make out the smudge-like bruises on his pale skin. It shouldn’t but it makes Geralt feel smugly satisfied, at least until he catches Ciri watching them with her lips pressed very close together like she’s trying not to laugh.

“We should get moving,” Geralt says, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible and feeling Jaskier’s eyes burning into the back of his neck.

The journey that day passes much like the last, although thankfully with less arrow attacks. The sun is shining; they’re making good progress. The few stragglers they pass on the road seem more interested in the garish cart than in the Witcher riding beside it. 

Joff is as silent as ever but once or twice Geralt catches him looking over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. Geralt isn’t sure if he somehow knows happened last night or just that he’s just a suspicious sort of bastard in general.

In fact, everyone seems a little twitchier today. Hyacinth and Lora spend more time staring out the window than giggling and even Ciri seems more on edge. The only person who seems totally unaffected is, oddly, Jaskier. If anything, he seems almost aggressively cheerful, talking nearly non-stop out of the window at Geralt and asking Ciri for advice on new lyrics. Geralt wasn’t sure what he had expected after last night and it’s not that he wanted coy glances and shy blushes but the way Jaskier is acting, it’s almost as if nothing happened at all. Like he wasn’t flat on his back last night, sweaty and wrecked and grabbing at the blankets.

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches him laugh with Ciri while he picks out an absent tune on his lute. He looks easy-going. Relaxed. Cheerful.

It’s _infuriating_.

Jaskier stays like that all morning while Geralt’s mood blackens and then, when they stop to rest around midday, he leads Geralt off into the forest and sucks him off against a tree.

Wither it’s from the surprise or the feel of Jaskier’s mouth, wet and hot around his cock, Geralt isn’t sure but whatever the reason, he comes almost embarrassingly quickly, throwing his head back so hard against the tree that it makes an audible thunk. There’s some pain but it’s distant and lost quickly in the flood of pleasure. There are still stars floating in his vision when he pulls Jaskier up and sticks his hand down his trousers.

Jaskier keeps talking through it, babbling nonsense phrases like _fuck, your hands are big_ and _yes yes yes_ and _please, Geralt, it’s so good, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop_.

They really should be quieter, they’re not far from the others but Geralt can’t bring himself to shut Jaskier up, not when he sounds so good like this, so fucking greedy for it. He does put his hand over Jaskier’s mouth when he comes though, stifling his moans and making shushing noises into his ear. While Jaskier is still shaking, Geralt leans in and puts his mouth on the bite marks he had left behind last night. He does it gently, just barely grazing with his teeth and then isn’t sure why he suddenly felt the need for tenderness.

  
  
“Fuck,” Jaskier says when Geralt takes his hand away. “Fuck that was…Fuck.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be good with words?” Geralt says drily and Jaskier rolls his eyes and shoves at him without any real force.

“We should get back soon. I don’t know how long they’ll believe that I’m trying to find poetic inspiration in nature.”

Geralt steps away reluctantly. “As excuses go that was a pretty shitty one.”

“You didn’t think of anything!” Jaskier says, looking offended. He’s straightening his clothes and hair but he’s still red faced, his pupils dilated. He smells like sex and Geralt has a sudden urge to push him down and fuck him right there on the forest floor.

Though knowing Jaskier, he would probably complain about the pine needles.

“How was I supposed to know you would be up for another round so soon?” Geralt says, crossing his arms and leaning back against a tree. Jaskier stops messing with his cloak and looks over at him, almost surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks. “Did you think that was just going to be a one-time thing?”

Geralt shrugs, feeling suddenly uneasy. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation.

Jaskier tilts to his head to the side and considers him for a moment and then steps a little closer.

“I wanted to fuck you since I first saw you in that tavern all those years ago,” Jaskier says, like it’s a simple fact. “I always thought you knew that.”

Geralt holds his gaze for a moment and then looks away. “We need to get back.”

* * *

They get some strange looks when they return and Ciri makes a point of picking a stray leaf out of Geralt’s hair but pretty soon they’re out on the road again. Geralt’s mood has picked up from this morning and it must be obvious, but he doesn’t really give a shit. The sun is shining, and the girl Hyacinth is playing a tune on her flute that Geralt almost recognises. Occasionally Jaskier looks over at him in a way that makes Geralt think forward to tonight’s inn, long after the performance is over.

All in all, things are going well until Jaskier clears his throat and announces in a shaky voice that there’s a razor blade hidden in one of the peaches he was about to bite into.

Just like that, everything starts getting a lot more fucking stressful.

Over the course of the day, Geralt manages to stop no fewer than three more attempts to have Jaskier killed or at the very least, seriously maimed. Out of nowhere the horses rear up, nearly throwing both Ciri and Jaskier from the roof. Somehow a rare and dangerous spider finds its way into the carriage. Geralt sniffs at a pouch of wine and when he pours it out, ground glass sparkles in the dirt.

By the time they reach the Inn, one girl is nearly in tears and the other looks like she’s seriously regretting choosing a life on the road. Jaskier is pale faced and jumping at every shadow and Geralt…Geralt is pissed off.

Pissed off at being constantly alert, pissed off at the danger that he’s subjecting Ciri too with this insane task but most of all, pissed off at not knowing who the fuck was behind all of this. There was the woman who had shot at them the other day, but she was only one person; the chances of her orchestrating all of the attacks were almost impossible. It would have to be someone closer than that.

Geralt stays for the whole show that night, staying down at a table in the back even when Ciri starts snoring onto his shoulder. He isn’t just watching Jaskier this time though; Geralt’s eyes are on his companions. Hyacinth and Lora seem harmless enough, happy just to get out of their village and see the world. At first Geralt had thought that one of them might have been the culprit; devotion turned to murderous obsession perhaps. But they seem more interested in Jaskier as a musician than anything else and after seeing the looks they give each other and the hands they hold under the table when they think no one is watching, Geralt writes them off as suspects.

Joff however… Joff is another matter entirely. He seems too old and experienced to be caught up in the rush of Jaskier’s newfound celebrity. He doesn’t seem to have a clear purpose either, despite all the decorative muscles.

What’s more, Geralt doesn’t like the way he looks at Jaskier. Like he’s watching a pet bird or a prized possession.

Jaskier laughs when Geralt tells him that later, when they’re alone and Ciri is safely in bed in the next room.

“I can’t believe you,” Jaskier says, looking delighted. “You’re jealous.”

“Fuck off,” Geralt growls but he pulls Jaskier closer by his wrists, inhaling the smell of him, sweaty and dark eyed from performing.

Jaskier lets him, even kisses him back eagerly but when Geralt pulls away he says, “Would that bother you? If I was sleeping with him?”

_Yes,_ Geralt thinks but instead of saying that he just starts roughly working Jaskier’s shirt off. Last night they had rushed; it had been desperate. But tonight, he wants to take his time. Lay Jaskier out underneath him. Make him beg for it.

Jaskier lets Geralt push him backwards towards the bed, and in between kisses he says, “Is that why… _ah_ …is that why you asked me if my room was empty last night?”

“Do you ever shut up?” Geralt growls and pushes him back down onto the bed. Jaskier lets out a huff of laughter but he’s watching Geralt with wide eyes, pulse racing in his neck.

“If you’re fucking him that’s fine,” Geralt grits out. “You can do what you want.”  
  


“Oh, _thank you_ ,” Jaskier says sarcastically, fluttering his eyelashes. “So kind of you to let me-“

Geralt lets out a groan and descends on him, pressing him back against the blankets and taking his mouth in a hard kiss. He wants Jaskier to shut up; he never wants him to stop talking. Geralt wants to fuck him into the mattress and he doesn’t want anyone else to touch Jaskier like this, ever again.

Geralt wants things he has no way of expressing and he takes it all out on Jaskier’s body; running his hands over the hot skin of Jaskier’s waist, his stomach, his open thighs.

Jaskier is gasping for air like a fish, giving back as good as he gets and pulling at Geralt’s clothes. He seems almost desperate for more, more skin, more _anything_ and Geralt lets him writhe for a moment before catching hold of his hands and stilling him against the bed. Jaskier whines in protest but Geralt just holds him, letting a little of his strength show. He leans down, close, their hips flush and lets out a breath along Jaskier’s neck, relishing the way that Jaskier’s heartbeat stutters in response.

“Jaskier…” Geralt says, hearing his voice come out very low and soft, almost dangerous. “What do you want?”

Jaskier opens his mouth, looks as though he’s about to make some snarky reply and then hesitates.

“I want,” he starts and then falters, suddenly very serious in the low light of the lamp. “I want you to…”

“To do what?” Geralt asks, even though he knows what Jaskier wants, feels it in the way he’s getting hard beneath him. “What do you want me to do to you?”

Jaskier takes a breath and then blurts out, “Fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

Geralt watches him for a long moment and then says, “Alright. Since you asked so nicely.”

“God you’re so kinky-“Jaskier says before getting cut off by Geralt’s kiss.

Geralt takes his time opening him up with oil, biting at the inside of Jaskier’s thighs and leaving behind dark little marks on the soft skin. Jaskier is wordless for the most part but he’s far from quiet; whining every time the feeling gets too much but making soft noises of complaint whenever Geralt slows down or draws his fingers away.

“Are you ready?” Geralt asks when he’s crouched over him, shaking with the effort of holding himself back.

“Fuck, yes,” Jaskier gasps out, squirming underneath him. “C’mon already, I’ve been ready for weeks, for months, for _years_ \- ah!”

He breaks off and gives a strangled shout when Geralt eases inside him and Geralt lets out a rough breath, reaching up to quiet him with a hand on his cheek.

“Oh fuck, oh gods, oh fuck me, yes, that’s it,” Jaskier is babbling but Geralt tries not to listen, arms shaking with the effort of not thrusting in all at once. If he listens to hard to the noises Jaskier is making, he might just come here and now and then he would have to go to the effort of getting hard all over again, just so he could keep fucking Jaskier like this, achingly slow and so good it almost teases at the edge of pain.

“That’s it,” he tells Jaskier and hears his own voice come out, broken and rough. “That’s it. You’re doing so well. You’re taking it so beautifully.”

Jaskier lets out a low moan at that and his mouth drops open, wet and red. Geralt leans down to lick into it and then his hips give a final twitch and he’s fully in.

“Good?” he asks and then brushes the sweaty hair from Jaskier’s face. “How does it feel?”

“It feels...” Jaskier says, taking a shuddery breath. “It feels like you should keep going.”

“Is that what you want?” Geralt asks softly.

“Fuck you, you know what I want,” Jaskier says, tipping his head back, his eyes closed.

“Tell me.”

“I hate you.”

“Tell me,” Geralt says again and rocks his hips for emphasis. “I can stay like this for hours.”

Jaskier lets out a moan at the feeling and then snaps, “Fine, fine. Pease fuck me. _Please_.”

Geralt bares his teeth, feeling suddenly predatory with lust and then he starts fucking Jaskier in earnest, gripping him by the hips, the bed shaking around them.

Jaskier falls apart underneath him, making so much noise that at one point, Geralt has to reach up and cover his mouth with a hand. He holds it off for as long as he can but finally, he reaches down and wraps a hand around Jaskier’s dick. Within two strokes, he feels Jaskier coming underneath him and then Geralt is following him over the edge, muffling his cry into the sweat of Jaskier’s neck.

When he finally collapses onto the bed, the two of them just lie there for a moment, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling. After a moment, Jaskier groans and sits gingerly up on the bed. Wincing, he stands and goes to the washbasin on the stand, bringing back a damp cloth. He tosses it at Geralt who grimaces at the cold.

Jaskier laughs at his expression and then falls back down onto the bed with unsteady legs.

“Was that loud?” Jaskier asks after a moment, his voice raw and fucked out. “I feel like that was loud.”

“It was loud,” Geralt says, closing his eyes and allowing himself a smile. The sweat is already drying on his skin and he feels loose and easy, the kind of calm he normally only gets from a hot bath. It’s incredible that fucking Jaskier produces this kind of effect when normally every interaction with him is so fucking aggravating. He feels Jaskier’s head fall down on his chest and when he moves his hand down to push him off, he finds instead he’s running a hand through Jaskier’s hair, letting the fine strands tangle in his fingers.

He should go soon, he doesn’t like to leave Ciri alone too long, but this is nice for the moment.

Or it is right up until Jaskier says, “Look, about Joff…”

“Do you really have to bring him up now-“Geralt growls and then Jaskier cranes his head round to look up at him, wide eyed.

“No, listen you idiot, I was going to say it’s not like that with him. He’s not interested-I’m not interested,” he says in a rush and then hesitates. “It’s just he’s…He’s…”

“He’s what?” Geralt asks flatly, narrowing his eyes.

“He’s my manager,” Jaskier says in an embarrassed kind of mumble, averting his eyes.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“He’s like…ugh…he just organises things for me. The carriage. The places we go. He has contacts all over the country. He does…advertising,” Jaskier says and then in an undertone. “For a small cut.”

“How small?” Geralt asks after a moment pause.

“Seventy percent,” Jaskier admits and then when he sees the look on Geralt’s face he holds up his hands. “I know what you’re thinking! But that goes towards all of the lodging and food and the horses-“

“Why do you need all those things?” Geralt asks. “Can’t you just show up somewhere and sing and get paid for it?”

“I tried that!” Jaskier says hotly. “I tried that for years and it got me nowhere. But then with Joff suddenly I’m singing to packed out rooms! I have a place to sleep every night!”

Geralt reads between the lines and narrows his eyes. “Do you actually have more money than before?”

“Well…” Jaskier says. “No. But my reputation…”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Oh yes. Your reputation is fantastic. So, fucking amazing that more people than ever want to kill you.”

Jaskier looks like he’s winding himself up for a fight but then suddenly he seems to deflate, falling back on Geralt’s chest with a laugh.

“Well, I’m not dead yet,” he says. “And besides, I’ve got you to protect me.”

Geralt looks down at him and suddenly feels a strange sense of loss.

“For one more day,” he says. “We cross the border tomorrow.”

Jaskier turns his head away and Geralt can’t see his face anymore. When he speaks, his voice sounds normal though, but almost too much so, like it’s carefully controlled.

“We better make tonight count then,” he says and then when he back to look at Geralt he’s smiling. “Unless you don’t have the stamina for it.”

“I think I can manage,” Geralt says and then Jaskier climbs up over him, dark eyed and already half hard.

But when they kiss there’s something almost gentle about it, Geralt holding Jaskier’s face between his hands and thinking for the first time, _I’ll stay, I’ll stay if you want me to_. _Ask me to stay._

But for all the noises Jaskier makes after that, and all the words he whispers and begs into Geralt’s ear, he never does.

* * *

Even Ciri seems sombre when they wake the next morning, standing by the window, looking down at the carriage below. Her cloak is on but unbuttoned and Geralt watches her carefully, wondering if she’s scared of whatever fresh assassination attempt might come today.

“It’s not far to the border,” he tells her softly. “We can make it on our own from here. If you want.”

“What?” she says and then her eyes widen. “No! No, I’m just…It’s been fun hasn’t it, these last few days?”

“Fun?” Geralt echoes dubiously.

“Well, aside from all the near- death experiences,” Ciri says, looking back down at the carriage. “But all of this…it’s a distraction. I’ve been so used to the stakes being so high. Running for my life. Seeing all of the pain and horror. But this. People cheering and laughing and all of the music. It reminds me that…that…”

She trails off but Geralt understands. It had surprised him too once, covered in blood and cold inside from the killing, to know that somehow, people could still smile. Could still sing.

“Do you want to stay?” he asks and when Ciri looks over at him, he holds her gaze steadily.

“I’ll follow you wherever you decide to go,” she tells him and all Geralt can do is nod without speaking.

* * *

When they turn a corner in the road and the border comes finally into view, Geralt realises all at once that they could never have made it through alone. He’s used to borders being a signpost at most; perhaps a rickety old fence to stop sheep from grazing into the next kingdom.

But the war, like so many other things, must have changed this.

The border is mostly naturally formed; a high and perilous mountain range that stretches on for miles of merciless jagged rock in both directions but here; there’s a small crack where the road snakes between the cliff edge on either side. It used to be that you could travel this way and see no one for days; now there is a crowd at the entrance to the pass. Even from this distance, half a mile away, Geralt can see the soldier weaving through the queue of vehicles, like little black beetles in their shiny helmets.

“Well, fuck,” Jaskier blurts out when he sees it and then immediately shoots a guilty look at Ciri.

“No,” Ciri says sadly, squinting in the sunlight. “I agree.”

They’re once again, sitting on top of the carriage with Geralt riding alongside on Roach but now, at Geralt’s shout, the carriage stops, and they clamber down for an impromptu whispered discussion.

“What do we do?” Jaskier asks, looking over at Geralt who shrugs.

“We travel through. We don’t have a choice.”

“What if they recognise you? No offense but you’re both quite far from inconspicuous,” Jaskier says, looking at Ciri’s platinum hair as it glints in the sunlight.

“It’s okay,” Ciri says with an impressive amount of confidence. “I have a hat.”

Jaskier gives her a very doubtful look.

He and Ciri travel in the carriage after that and Geralt draws his hood down over his face, pulling in Roach close behind the carriage. His swords are stashed in Roach’s saddlebags; they would be too conspicuous otherwise but his hands itching for them by the time they reach the checkpoint.

At first Geralt thinks it will be easier than they thought. The guards take one look at the bright colours of the wagon and they seem to instantly dismiss it, not even checking the passengers inside. They’re waved through for the most part but then, right as they’re about to enter the shadows of the pass, one guard steps forward, holding out his hand for them to stop.

“Is there a problem?” Joff calls out from where he’s driving the horses and the guard’s eyes narrow.

“Just a routine check,” he says. “I’ll need your passengers to step out.”

Geralt tenses, fingers tightening in the reins, but he can’t dismount, not without causing alarm.

The girls step out gingerly, huddling together with wide eyes and then comes Jaskier, with Ciri pulled in tight behind him. He’s smiling widely with a kind of natural ease that even Geralt can see is suspicious.

“How can we help you my good man!” he says and then holds up his lute, “A song perhaps? It looks like boring work out here in the sun all day.”

The soldier looks at him blankly and then his eyes slide over to Ciri.

“We’re looking for someone. Two people actually,” he says. “Dangerous people.”

“Well I don’t know if I can help you there,” Jaskier says, angling his body slightly so that Ciri is more securely behind him. “As you can see there are six of us and none particularly dangerous.”

“What about the big fellow on the horse,” the guard says, giving Geralt a hard glance. “He doesn’t look very friendly.”

“Oh, that’s just Georgie, my hired muscle,” Jaskier says, waving his hand. “He’s dumb as a rock but really a sweetheart once you get to know him. Aren’t you Georgie?”

Geralt gives the soldier a smile. It’s not a very nice one but there are lot of teeth involved. Even with the hood pulled down low over his witcher eyes, the effect is obviously unsettling.

The soldier blanches a little and turns back to Jaskier’s open, honest face.

“One of these people we’re looking for is a girl,” he goes on. “A young girl. Noblewoman. You wouldn’t have happened to see anything like that would you?” 

“No,” Jaskier says, swallowing. “No little girls. Aside from my daughter of course but she’s not very noble.”

“Your daughter?” the guard asks, eyes narrowed.

Hyacinth and Lora are looking confused now and Geralt prays they have enough sense not to speak.

“My daughter,” Jaskier says, with more confidence now, as if he’s warming to the idea. He puts a proud hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Just a child but the best singer you’ve ever heard. I’ve taught her everything she knows. Go on, Dora, let’s sing him the one about the headless man and the cockerel.”  
  


Ciri opens her mouth but then the guard is waving them off, looking alarmed.

“No, no that’s alright. I can’t stand music. Be on your way,” he says and then within minutes they’re out of pass and free.

Jaskier is still fuming long after the checkpoint has dwindled behind them.

“Who can’t stand music?” he asks bitterly. “What a sad bastard that man was. What a joyless individual. People pay for the privilege of hearing me sing!”

He looks over to Geralt for sympathy and wrinkles his nose. “What are you annoyed about? We got through didn’t we?”

“Georgie?” Geralt says drily.

“You try coming up with a name on the spot,” Jaskier snaps and Ciri gives a snort of laughter, looking more relaxed than she has in weeks.

From there it’s an easy day’s ride before they reach the outskirts of the city and, miraculously, no attempts are made on Jaskier’s life in that time. Even so Geralt doesn’t feel as relieved as he thought he would to see the stone towers come into view.

Even Jaskier has fallen silent but Geralt let himself look over. It’s easier this way, Geralt reminds himself. Cleaner.

They reach the final inn of their journey (although to compare this large, clean tavern to the slums they had stayed at before seems unfair) and while Joff and girls disappear inside, Jaskier hovers outside by the carriage.

“I suppose this is where we say goodbye then,” Jaskier says reluctantly and for a moment his hand twitches in the space between them, like he’s about to reach out.

Geralt stands by Roach, fussing with his reigns so he doesn’t have to look at Jaskier’s face.

“I suppose it is,” he says roughly. “You’ll hire some sellsword tomorrow?”

“The best that gold can buy,” Jaskier says, with a forced kind of lightness in his tone.

There’s a tense silence then in which neither of them moves and then Ciri looks between them and says, “We should stay one more night. To see your show.”

She looks at Geralt as if expecting him to protest but he keeps his mouth shut, looking at Jaskier.

“You aren’t sick of it by now?” Jaskier asks her and she shakes her head.

“Not yet,” she says. “You still haven’t played me ‘Valley of Plenty’.”

Jaskier laughs and his shoulder relax. “Alright then. I don’t always take requests but for you I’ll make an exception. As a thank you for keeping me alive.”

Ciri looks over at Geralt who shrugs and says in his best attempt at a neutral tone he says, “One more night won’t hurt.”

* * *

That night before the show and while Ciri is settles at a table downstairs in the tavern Geralt goes upstairs to knock on Jaskier’s door.

He’s not sure why he’s knocking; he’s not in the habit of doing it and certainly not with Jaskier but something about tonight feels different, making Geralt tense, unsure of himself.

He enters when he hears a muffled invitation and finds Jaskier, leaning over a chest of drawers to get closer to a mirror. He’s holding a small dark stick worryingly close to his eye, already wearing his leather trousers and open shirt.

Geralt hangs back for a minute, not sure whether to enjoy the view or be concerned about the possibility of Jaskier losing an eyeball.

“If you’re looking for sex, you should start getting naked now,” Jaskier calls out, catching his eye in the mirror. “I’m onstage in ten minutes so it’ll have to be quick.”

Looking at Jaskier’s ass, Geralt is sorely tempted for a moment but then he shakes his head.

“I’m not here to fuck you Jaskier, but I appreciate the invitation.”

“Well what are you here for?” Jaskier asks, grinning at him over his shoulder. One eye is ringed in black, giving the impression that someone’s given him a black eye.

“I’m here to talk to you,” Geralt says and then clears his throat. “You’re still in danger.”

Jaskier snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“ _You’re still in danger_ ,” Geralt persists. “And I don’t know if some hired man will be able to protect you-“

“Why Geralt,” Jaskier says, pulling away from the mirror and fixing him with exaggerated wide eyes. “Are you _worried_ about me?”

“I can stay. Until we find out who’s doing this,” Geralt says and then, in a lower tone he says, “If you want me to.”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything but a muscle twitches in his jaw. Abruptly he turns back to the mirror and starts drawing around his other eye.

“Wouldn’t that get in the way of your big fancy destiny?” he asks. “What about Ciri?”

“Ciri likes you,” Geralt says and doesn’t say, _I do too._

Jaskier steps back and frown at himself in the mirror. This eye is significantly messier than the other one.

“You know I really thought I would never see you again,” Jaskier bites out and the words have the air of a confession. “I thought you meant it when you told me to fuck off. And that was fine, I mean it wasn’t but I got over it, okay. I got over you. And now you come back out of the blue with some new rescued princess and I- I can’t….”

He trails off, breathing hard and then, as if realizing what he’s said, shuts his mouth tight with an audible click. Geralt wants to say something, do something but he can’t. He feels frozen in place.

“What do you want me to say?” he grits out finally. “That I’m sorry?”

Jaskier’s mouth works for a moment but then he just looks away, shaking his head.

“No,” he says bitterly. “I don’t want that.”

He looks suddenly so defeated that before Geralt can stop himself, he’s moving closer. His hand hovers and then Geralt tells himself not to be such a fucking coward and lets it rest on Jaskier’s arm.

“Jaskier…” he says and then suddenly sniffs the air. “Wait, why do you smell like that?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Jaskier says, outraged but Geralt brings up his hand to shush him, sniffing the air around them.

“Really,” he says. “I can smell magic. I smelt it before but not this strongly. What have you got in here?”

Jaskier just looks at him coldly. “You’d say anything to get out of a conversation about feelings, wouldn’t you?”

Geralt ignores him, sniffing the air around him, looking for the source. It’s sweet, almost sickly so, and powerful. He looks around the room and sees nothing out of the ordinary; a bed, the window, the dresser. Jaskier’s bag is on the ground, clothes spilling out of it and the smell lingers there but it’s strongest on Jaskier himself, almost intoxicating.

Jaskier splutter when Geralt gets in close to smell his neck, pulling away and saying, “Okay well this has been weird but I really do have a show to put on-“

“Where did you get your makeup?” Geralt asks, narrowing his eyes at the little black stick in Jaskier’s hand. “Who gave it to you?”

“It’s not _makeup_ -“Jaskier says, flushing red. “And I don’t know, I got it from Joff ages ago. He told me that it would add to the performance.”

“Can I see?” Geralt asks and then before Jaskier has a chance to answer he takes it from him, holding it up to the light.

It’s just a little black stick, almost like a little twig of charcoal. It leaves a dusty imprint on Geralt’s fingertips and when he holds it to his nose and inhales the rush is instant, almost strong enough to roll his eyes back in his skull. He recognises the tang of Beggartick blossoms but they’re usually used alongside beast fangs, not whatever this ingredient is, this decaying kind of sweetness…

All at once, Geralt remembers with a sick feeling in his stomach, the words of the would-be assassin.

_It’s about love witcher, but it’s not what you think._

“Fuck,” Geralt snarls and then again for good measure, “ _Fuck._ Jaskier did you know you’ve been rubbing ground up succubi horn into your eyes?”

“What?” Jaskier says, going pale. “What are you talking about?”

“This shit,” Geralt says, holding up the stick. “Did you know this was magical?”

“It’s not,” Jaskier says weakly, looking between the stick and Geralt’s face. “No, it’s not.”

“It is,” Geralt says darkly and then a horrible suspicion makes him narrow his eyes. “This must be what the woman was talking about. Did you _steal_ _a love charm_ from her?”

“ _Love charm_?” Jaskier yelps and then starts backing away, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just fucking makeup!”

“So, you did steal it,” Geralt snaps and then feels hot bubbles of anger rising in his blood. “I can’t believe you had me worried about your sorry arse, thinking someone was out to get you when all this time it was because of petty thievery-“  
  


“Geralt, no listen,” Jaskier is saying, wild eyed. “I didn’t take anything! I don’t know-“

“All for what?” Geralt goes on, cutting him off. “A bigger audience? Fuck, I knew something was off about this whole thing.”

“Hey!” Jaskier snaps, looking suddenly defensive. “I don’t need cheap tricks to bring in a crowd. What, you think I’m drugging my audience for what, money? Fame?”

Geralt says nothing but Jaskier must see the answer in his face because high spots of red appear in his cheeks; his expression is suddenly livid.

“You know what?” he says in a low, dangerous tone. “Fuck you. Fuck your accusation and your stupid succubus story. You don’t need to make up some bullshit excuse if you want to leave. I don’t want you around anyway, so kindly fuck off.”

Geralt snarls and steps forward but the door is already slamming shut in his face.

For a minute he thinks about punching it, he’s so angry, but at the last minute he gets ahold of himself. Instead he just swears, low and heartfelt under his breath and tries very hard to unclench his fists.

The little black stick is still in his hand when he opens it and Geralt glares down at hit, hating it with a vicious kind of anger. He’s angry at Jaskier for using it and angry at his accusations but most of all Geralt is angry at himself. For getting dragged into this mess. For caring. For pushing Jaskier away all that time ago and being too fucking prideful to apologise.

Through the floorboards he can hear the sound of a crowd cheering and then the first few notes of a song drift up. For a minute Geralt thinks about leaving. Taking Ciri and getting out of the city altogether. There must be some monsters to kill in the outskirts. Wars come and go and so do people, but if there’s one thing you can rely on, it’s that there will always be monsters to kill.

He lets himself imagine it for a moment and then he curses, closes his hand around the love charm and then goes downstairs to find Jaskier.

Halfway down the main flight of stairs, the cheers and music give way to frightened screams. Geralt curses again and starts to run.

When he reaches the heavy wooden doors to the main tavern, they’re shut tight; from the sound of it, hell on earth has broken out on the other side. It’s not just screaming; there’s the sound of furniture shifting and shouts of anger and when Geralt sniffs the air he can smell the acrid tang of smoke.

Through it all, he picks out a voice in the chaos, high and frightened, calling his name.

“Ciri!” Geralt calls out against the wood, nagging his fist on the door, but she can’t hear him through the noise.

He tries throwing his shoulder against it, but it’s stuck fast, so finally in desperation he calls out, “Stand back from the door!”

He casts _Aard_ and with a horrible creak of distressed wood, the door splits, showering him with splinters. Geralt shields his eyes but when he looks back, he’s almost bowled over the flood of people trying to escape.

He strongarms his way through them, trying not to use more force than necessary and then finally he’s inside.

Geralt had seen the tavern briefly when they arrived, and it had been large and comfortable with a reed mat on the floor. There was a boar’s head over the large fireplace and the pewter tankards had looked clean, if not particularly well polished.

Now the fire in the grate burns flickering green; casting strange shadows on the wall. The smoke that curls out from it is acrid and foul-smelling, sticking in his lungs. The clean furniture lies ransacked on the floor; much of it is in pieces. A few frightened people are huddled in corners but Geralt’s eyes go immediately to the scene being played out in the centre of the room.

Backed up against the fireplace is Jaskier, hands in the air, looking paralysed by fright. In front of him, bow raised, and arrow notched in place is the mystery rider. This time her hood is down; beneath it is a plump, middle aged face, teeth bared in a grimace of anger.

When Geralt had entered they had both turned to look at him, but while Jaskier’s face holds relief, hers gives the impression that Geralt has stumbled rudely upon some private conversation.

Geralt takes all of this in within a second and then decides to stand very, very still. He’s all at once very aware that he’s unarmed. He had left his swords down here with Ciri but they could be anywhere by now.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says carefully. “But before you make a mistake-“

“There’s no mistake, witcher,” the woman spits out, not lowering the bow. “I warned you to tell your bard to return what’s mine. I’m no longer willing to be patient.”

“Patient?” Jaskier yelps. “You’ve been trying to kill me for weeks! And I told you, I never stole anything!”

“Liar!” the woman snaps and the arrow quivers.

Geralt desperately wishes that for once, Jaskier was capable of shutting up.

“Listen,” he says loudly, hoping to draw her attention. “I have your charm here. I’m returning it, alright?”

The woman glances at the love charm but she doesn’t move.

“It’s too late for that,” she says. “Not after all my warnings. The insult is too great.”

Geralt is suddenly aware of eyes watching him. He glances over without moving his head and there’s a familiar white face, crouched beneath a table.

Ciri. Frightened but seemingly unhurt. As subtly as he can, Geralt shakes his head minutely.

_Stay down. Stay quiet._

For once Ciri seems to listen to him, nodding her head and shrinking back into the shadows.

“Listen,” Jaskier is saying. “I’m really sorry I took your potion or whatever it is but you have to believe me, I had no idea it was even magical! I don’t even really like the stuff! It’s itchy and hard to get off and I haven’t even learnt how to apply it prop-“

“Shut up,” the woman snaps. “How dare you stand there and lie to my face? I gave you ample warning!”

“How?” Jaskier says, his outrage seemingly out-weighing his instinct for self-preservation. “By shooting arrows at me? By poisoning my drinks? Putting fucking _snakes_ in my lute? Could you not have written a fucking letter first?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says warningly, watching the bow intently. He could knock it out of her hands with _Aard_ but the arrow might still be let loose and find it’s mark. But even as he tenses and readies his hand the woman is hesitating, lowering the bow just slightly.

“I did,” she says slowly. “I sent many warnings. You ignored them all. And I never put snakes in anything- I _hate_ the fucking things.”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Geralt says, directing his question to the woman. “Listen, how did you know it was the bard who stole your charm?”

The woman’s eyes narrow in suspicion but then she says in a low voice, “I saw his name. On the wagon. I was selling my wares at market when it was taken.”

“But did you _see_ him take it?” Geralt persists, “Or could it have been the man cowering over in the corner behind you?”

As if in unison, Jaskier and the woman turn their heads to look at Joff, who up until that moment, had been edging silently towards the door.

“Hey,” Joff says, holding his hands up. “I have no part in this. I just work for the bard- if he’s stolen something of yours-“

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest but Geralt beats him to it, speaking very low and fast.

“I thought it was odd that the attacks on your life seemed to come from close to hand,” he says. “One person alone couldn’t have done so much, not without help. When did you start working with him Jaskier? Was it around the same time you started to get so much attention?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says after a pause, eyes flicking between Joff and Geralt and then back to the arrow still pointed at his chest. “He approached me about a year ago. He told me he could make me famous.”

“And he did,” Geralt growls. “By enhancing your performance with love spells. But he made a mistake. He didn’t buy the charm-“

“I would never have sold it,” the woman says, trembling with anger.

  
“- he stole it,” Geralt finishes. “And then when the owner managed to track down it down and demand its return, he panicked. The situation had become too complicated. So, our friend Joff here decided it’s easier just to let you die. Wrap the situation up nicely and move on. Find a new musician to exploit. But then it didn’t happen quickly enough.”

“So, you decided to hurry the process along by killing me yourself,” Jaskier says to Joff, looking pale and shaky with anger. “You _bastard_. Why couldn’t you just tell me? We could have just given the bloody thing back!”

“You think you would still draw a crowd without that shit around your eyes?” Joff snaps, suddenly nasty, like an animal feeling the trap closing in around him. “You needed this. You needed _me_.”

“Everyone shut up,” the woman snaps, letting the bow drop as if she can’t decide who to point it at. “I don’t care about any of this. Who has my charm?”

“I do,” Geralt says quickly and holds it out. “Take it back. With our apologies.”

She look at him warily and then relaxes the drawstring slowly before holding out a hand for it. Geralt comes closer, moving slowly so as not to alarm her. He drops it into her palm, and she lets out a sigh of relief, drawing it to her chest.

“You really shouldn’t be using that stuff,” Geralt warns her. “It’s effects are very-“

“Mind your own business,” she snaps. “I still haven’t decided if I’m going to kill anybody yet.”

Suddenly there’s a scuffling noise and Jaskier shouts. Geralt whirls around his head in time to see Joff, running for the open door. Before he reaches it, Ciri is stepping out from the shadows, blocking the exit, her arms trembling under the weight of Geralt’s sword.

“Stay where you are!” she says but Joff just laughs and draws his own blade from his waist, a thin and wicked looking knife that glints in the firelight.

“No!” Geralt shouts, springing forward and he hears Jaskier do the same but both of them are too far away, they’re not quick enough and Ciri’s eyes are widening as she stumbles backwards. Joff draws back his hand and _grins-_

-and then there’s a dull thud and he freezes in place, the smile sliding off his face. He half turns in place and then falls to the floor in a heap, blade knocked from his hand and skittering across the floorboards.

An arrow sticks out from between his shoulder blades.

“Ciri!” Geralt says, rushing forward to clasp her by the shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she says, lowering the sword. “I’m fine. She- she killed him.”

Geralt looks back over his shoulder at the woman, who lowers her bow and shrugs.

“What kind of coward attacks a child?” she asks. “You people are all crazy. Don’t steal from me again.”

With that she turns and walks away, the front door bursting open with a flick of her wrist as she walks through it. As she leaves the fire returns to a normal colour, leaving only the smell of bitter smoke behind. 

The few remaining audience members, after a pause, stumble out after her, looking somewhat dazed.

Jaskier is left in the middle of the room, shoulders slumped and when Geralt looks at him he just shrugs helplessly.

“This is not how I pictured tonight going,” he says weakly.

Geralt looks at him and then at Ciri.

“You could have been killed,” he tells her. “What did I tell you about being heroic?”

“It gets you killed,” Ciri says and then, stubbornly, “But you would have done it too.”

Geralt sighs. “Let’s argue about it when we’re far away from this shithole. I’ve had enough of fucking taverns.”

Ciri nods and then glances over at Jaskier, who’s still standing there, looking lost.

“Is he going to be alright?” she asks in a whisper and Geralt sighs.

“Go and get Roach ready,” he tells her and then hesitates. “See if you can steal another horse while you’re at it.”

Ciri nods and heads for the door.

When they’re alone, Geralt suddenly doesn’t know what to say. He comes a little closer, over to where Jaskier is wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

“Jaskier- “he starts, hovering uselessly and Jaskier stops what he’s doing for a moment to glare at him.

“I’m not fucking crying if that’s what you think,” Jaskier says roughly. “I’m just trying to get this shit off.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Geralt says quietly.

“Of course, it wasn’t,” Jaskier snaps. “I had nothing to do with it. I had nothing to do with _any of it_ as it turns out. It wasn’t my music people liked. It was just some fucking spell.”

He starts to scrub at his eyes again, almost violently and Geralt steps forward to catch his hand.

“It wasn’t just the charm,” he says. “That just…enhanced things. Made people want to listen to you. But the songs- that was all you. The spell might have drawn them in, but your music made them stay.”

Jaskier looks at his wrist in Geralt’s hand and chews at his lip.

“You hate my music,” he says softly and Geralt shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “I don’t. I never did.”

There’s the sound of shouting coming from the street and Geralt glances over at the door.

“We need to go,” he says but when he pulls at Jaskier’s hand, he doesn’t move.

Jaskier is looking away, down at the floor.

“No,” he says. “You should go. I can’t.”

“Why the fuck not?” Geralt snaps, frustrated. “Look, you want me to say sorry? Well I am. I shouldn’t have tried to push you away. I shouldn’t have hurt you. I’ve been regretting it ever since. ”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, sounding genuinely surprised. “I mean, _good_ and _thank you_ , but that’s not why I can’t go with you.”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Geralt growls. “What do you want me to do, get down on my knees and beg forgiveness? “

“No!” Jaskier says, wide eyed. “No, that’s not what I mean, I mean I can’t go with you because I’ve been taking advantage of you without knowing it all this time and you need to stay away from me or at least leave before it wears off and you try and cut my head off-“  
  


“Wait, wait,” Geralt says, catching Jaskier’s shoulders in an attempt to get him to stop looking quite so desperate. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The- the _charm_!” Jaskier says almost hysterically. “You think it’s a coincidence that I’m using it when you show up and suddenly want to fuck me! Geralt, in the entire time we’ve known each other the only thing you’ve felt for me is aggravation so why-“

Geralt gives up on talking this out and kisses him.

At first Jaskier melts into it and then after a moment he pushes at Geralt’s chest, pulling back and saying, “No, listen-“

“I still find you aggravating,” Geralt tells him, saying the words very slowly and carefully so they stick. “You are aggravating. I’ve always thought that. But I’ve also _always_ wanted to fuck you. _Magic doesn’t work on me, idiot.”_

Jaskier blinks up at him for a moment, still held in Geralt’s arms.

“You’ve always wanted me?” he echoes. “Even when we first met?”

Geralt thinks back and then nods. “Even then. Though it took a while for me to get fond of you.”

“You’re _fond_ of me?” Jaskier says as if he can’t believe it, and then a wide smile breaks out over his face. “Well what are we waiting around for? Let’s go.”

“In a moment,” Geralt says and even though he can hear the sounds of waiting horses outside, he takes a moment to pull Jaskier in for one more kiss, letting himself savour it this time.

Destiny can wait, at least for a few more minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Tell me what you think below xx

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think if you liked this! xx


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